A Blind Man's Quest
by marinoa
Summary: England loses his sight due to a failed spell, but, too proud to ask for help, struggles on his own. France, of course, will have none of that.


_Author's note:_ Okay. This is kinda written for FrUK New Year's gift exchange, for _azumeowth_ on tumblr, whose prompt was France taking care of blind England. In the end, I chose another prompt to fulfil, but because I posted it late, I promised to compensate by fulfilling another of her prompts as well. Actually, this was my original choice. (And yeah, I'm aware that it's been a while since the New Year.)

 **A Blind Man's Quest**

When England first opens his eyes early in the morning, it's so dark that he concludes it must still be night, and goes back to sleep. When he awakes for the second time to the horrible ringing of his old-fashioned alarm clock and finds everything to be just as dark as earlier – pitch black, even – he sleepily realises that something must be off. He manages to silence his cursed alarm clock (he cursed it himself after it once failed to wake him and he missed an important meeting) with an automatised swing of his arm and then rubs his eyes to clear his vision. It doesn't help – the blackness is still there – so he blinks a couple of times and squints into darkness, only to find that he can't distinguish even the lines of his own hand when he waves it before his face.

Something twists in his gut in an unpleasant foreboding way and he reaches for his mobile phone, which lies obediently on his night stand beside the humiliated alarm clock. Even if the world had gone black, if the sun had disappeared, light should show in the dark, and so he blindly presses the buttons of his phone. Nothing. England feels his hands starting to shake as he randomly continues pressing the buttons – maybe the battery is dead, maybe – but then he apparently manages to take a photo on his phone, because he hears the sound of a shutter that the device makes, so the phone must be functioning – and he can't see it.

The realisation hits his face like a bucketful of cold water, and all sleepiness scattering away. It is not world that has gone dark. It is him who has gone blind.

England has been injured countless times during his long history. In fact, in life of a nation there hardly ever was (and, for same nations, is) a day without wounds, bruises, or, at the very least, minimal colds due to wars, conflicts, or bad economy. England himself has suffered broken bones, horrible infections, burns, and raw wounds ripping him in half, and all that is familiar, all that he knows how to deal with. But this, this blindness, now, is utterly new to him; never before in his whole existence has England lost his ability to see, he has always been able to rely on his eyes even when his body had given in, even when he had to lie helpless and motionless with his solar plexus crushed nearly into his spine, or when he lay two long days on the street with his body burned beyond recognition. But _this_ , not seeing, is frightening on a whole new level he has never experienced before.

England draws in a shuddering breath in an attempt to calm himself. What could have caused this loss of sight? As far as he knows, his country is running just like before, no new troubles with economy, no accidents with his royal family, no attacks on his land, so what is it? He has done nothing out of the ordinary, nothing -

Oh. Oh, fuck.

England covers his face with his hands, rubs his eyes, tears at his hair, rubs his eyes again as he remembers. Of course. He knew, _knew_ that the spell was risky but he had decided to try it nonetheless three days earlier. It had been written in clear, perfectly understandable Old English that the spell might have unwanted side effects... but it never occurred to him that it could affect his _sight_.

The damn spell didn't even work. So how, pray tell, is it fair that its side effect does?

The surrounding silence suddenly crashes on England and he scrambles into a sitting position in his bed, entirely at loss. "I'm blind," he states aloud, to hear something, anything. He must do something – but what? What can he even do? He is – blind, for Pete's sake, what is there that he can _do_? "Don't panic," he snaps at himself, but quite in vain. No, he absolutely must do something, he will go mad otherwise. He must... he must find whether his blindness will fade away by itself over time, or if he needs to perform magic to rid himself of it. Both options are equally likely. It was probably explained in the spell book, yes, he can almost picture the words in him mind... Oh, why didn't he read that part more carefully? Where did he even leave that book, in the basement or did he take it to his library? He needs to find it, yes, and -

But there is no way that he could find any book in his current state. Hell, even if he did find the right tome, there's absolutely no fucking chance of him being able to read it.

England slowly covers himself with his duvet again.

And promptly throws it aside. Fuck, he is the fucking England, he will _not_ lie in his bed and despair because of a small drawback such as this. He will find a solution. He always has before.

However, his resolution wavers a little when he stands up. He knows his house, he has lived decades in it and could navigate through his rooms with his eyes closed – or so he thought before. But now he realises that it isn't so easy; suddenly, images of all his previous homes return into his mind quite out of the blue and blend with the image of his current house so that he's not sure of anything any more, and it's illogical, because he hasn't thought of his previous homes for ages. And still, now that his eyes betray him, his muscle memory brings up old rooms and corridors and stairways, confusing him.

England shakes his head and takes a step forward, then another, sways, almost falls, then moves again until his fingers brush a wall and he collapses against it in relief. He is breathing heavily and even though he must have taken perhaps six or seven steps at most, he feels as though he has just run a marathon. "Damn you, get a grip of yourself," he mutters to himself under his breath and tries to stop his mind from flying back in time, to the long, pitch black underground tunnels, where he stumbled in darkness in the very same way as now, waiting for the sound of air alarm to cease and feeling the bombs in his skin, in his bones -

"Enough!" The sound of his own voice startles him enough to pull him out of the memories of which he thought he had got over long ago. Shame of his own weakness produces a flush on his cheeks and he forces himself on the move again. "Bathroom," he grumbles aloud. "You are fucking England, you conquered half the world, so you can find your way to your own sodding bathroom, for fuck's sake!"

He moves slowly, one hand constantly following the wall, but he finds his bathroom eventually. Encouraged by this small victory, he feels his way downstairs and into the kitchen. Tea. He needs to make some tea. Now, England may have had many houses to confuse him in the state of blindness, but nothing can ever make him forget how to prepare his tea. After some clumsy fumbling on the counter he finds the kettle, fills it with water and places on the stove. He finds a cup and decides to settle for teabags this time.

"See?" he says to himself later, when he sits down at the kitchen table with a hot teacup in his hands. "You can manage." Yes, he can manage. If he could prepare his tea, he can also prepare something small to eat – he will manage, until the blindness comes undone – and it will come undone, because England refuses to think of the other possibility.

And so he sits at his kitchen table, drinks his tea, and listens how the clock ticks away the time that he can't see.

xXx

The phone rings.

England pointedly ignores it. He knows perfectly well why somebody is calling him, and he also has a pretty good guess of who that somebody might be; there is a world meeting starting, one that England should attend, and the caller is either America, who has noticed that there is one voice less telling him to shut up, and now wants to know why England can skip meetings if he cannot, or then it's France, who wants England at the meeting only for his own personal entertainment, the selfish frog. Anyway, whoever it is phoning him is only a sadistic Nation who wants him to suffer the same dull meeting as the rest of them. This being the case, England sees absolutely no reason to give the caller the satisfaction of him answering. He cannot attend the meeting anyway, not in his current state, so he stubbornly sits on his sofa until the ringing stops.

It is the afternoon of the third day of England's blindness – he is able to keep track of time thanks to the radio – and nothing has changed. His sight has not returned, and in the course of the previous days he had realised that managing by himself is not at all as easy as it first appeared. He hasn't exited his house at all, and all he has been eating is poorly made sandwiches and biscuits, but he's already running out of them, even though he has had barely any appetite. He needs help, the rational part of his mind is perfectly aware of it, but when had rationality prevailed in the world? It is pride that now dictates England's decisions, and he would much rather be hanged by the neck than allow other Nations to see him in his pitiful state. Besides, who could he even ask for help? England knows that there's not a Nation who wouldn't rejoice of his plight and possibly exploit the situation all they can, laugh at him and spread the word, or, at the very least, shrug in indifference and attend their own problems. Even if someone agreed to help, they would probably do so for a possible profit, expecting something in return. England, if anyone, knows how the Nations are.

On a second note, perhaps he should have answered his phone after all; the last thing he needs now is to have his fellow Nations getting suspicious and deciding to check on what he's up to.

As if on a clue, the phone rings again – it's his landline phone, since the battery of his mobile phone died the day before and he couldn't find the charger. England jumps, then scrambles up and feels his way to the phone. Better get it over and done with.

"Hello?" he says into the receiver, making sure to sound as he always does – cool and composed and indifferent.

" _Bonjour, Angleterre_ ," a familiar voice assaults his ears. _France,_ England thinks and reflexively grimaces.

"What do you want?" he asks irritably.

"What do I want?" Somehow France manages to sound haughty and surprised at the same time. "Ah, I see. Years have finally caught up with you, and you are developing dementia. Well, the inevitable must happen sooner or later, I suppose, and judging by your uptight behaviour, old age has been knocking on your door a good while now, so -"

" _France_ ," England growls through his gritted teeth. "What. Do. You. Want?" It is funny, but as soon as he hears his arch enemy's voice, everything else, even the blindness, slips away from his mind, and the familiarity of the irritation is oddly comforting.

"I want to know why you are answering your _home_ _phone_ when you are supposed to be in Brussels, which, as far as I know, is not your home," France immediately answers, still haughtily, yet with a hint of something else in his voice, too, if England entertains his imagination. "There is a meeting about to begin here, England dear, a meeting at which you are very much expected."

England snorts. "I have more important matters to attend than your circus in Brussels," he retorts with all the haughtiness of a pirate that he once was.

"Indeed? So do we all, I must inform you. This should not come to you as news, but the world does not, in fact, rotate around you."

"Doesn't mean that I should abandon everything to hurry to every meeting we have."

"May I ask then what is so important that you cannot spare a day for the welfare of the world?" France asks calmly. "Or even keeps you from informing us about your absence?"

"That is not your concern, France," England snaps and immediately berates himself for not thinking of any plausible excuse beforehand.

"Must I then conclude that you are skipping our meeting in favour of some trivial matter?"

"If that will make you shut up and let me be, yes."

"Curious," France states nonchalantly. "Oh, by the way – you might want to charge your mobile phone, as it was quite unresponsive when some of us tried calling to it earlier."

"Of course. Goodbye."

"Also," France continues carelessly, as if England hadn't spoken, "Some of us were mildly concerned on realising that you are not attending us today. Someone – I can't remember who, really, and I told them it was silly anyway – well, someone was wondering if you caught cold again, or something, because it really isn't like you to skip meetings without a notice, such a work maniac as you are."

"I'm _fine_ ," England snarls in response. "Very kind of that _someone_ , but it isn't their business, either. Thank you, bye."

"Of course, England, of course, I shall pass this information forward. _Adieu_ _,_ take care, and so on. I'd love to chat with you longer, but unfortunately there is a _meeting_ starting, so I really must cut this pleasure short."

England slams the receiver down on it's place with all the power he can use without breaking the device (that's what he loves in old landline telephones – one may hang up on someone quite expressively). Except that his aim isn't at its best at the moment, and the receiver lands on the table instead of its rightful place. England snarls a loud curse and, hearing France's curious _Angleterre?_ on the other end of the line, hangs up properly this time. Fuck his blindness. Fuck France. It's disturbingly annoying that the frog would inquire after him only to hear why he's slipping off his duties, not because he'd be genuinely concerned... or anything. Not that England wants him to be, mind you – it is simply a notion. England has always been better off by himself, anyway, and he values peace and his own time more than those endless hours of bickering with France. Besides, England doesn't have time for the frog; even when blind, he has important business to attend to and he will attend it immediately, thank you very much.

After eight or so busy hours of tying little knots in knitting wool, three firm knocks stir England from his tranquillity. He frowns at the door, as the telly informs him that it's about eight o'clock, and no one in their right mind would disturb anyone at that hour. Something whispers to him that he doesn't really want to open the door, and so he lets it be and returns to his important task.

He successfully ignores the first two sets of knocks, by which time he already has a gist of who it might be (which is even more a reason not to let him in), and surprisingly, the knocking stops. The relief, however, is short-lived, as the intruder inserts a key in the lock and turns it with an ominous click. England curses and scrambles up from his sofa, hastily feeling his way to the hall and the front door. With any luck, he'll be just on time to slam the door to that bastard's bearded face...

Alas, as it often happens, England is quite out of luck. By the time he reaches the front door, it has already been shut – leaving the intruder on the wrong side of it, namely, _in_ side. England hears how a paper bag is placed on the floor and a jacket it hung on the hook, and those few seconds are what he has to brace himself for the inevitable and obtain a disinterest expression, directing his eyes to where he senses the intruder to be. The familiar scent of cologne confirms his earlier suspicions, and so England crosses his arms and hopes that his eyes appear normal despite blindness.

There is a stubborn silence, until France finally speaks. " _Bonjour Angleterre._ "

" _Bonjour France,_ " England imitates in his best French. "Fancy seeing you here. Now if only you turned around and left, it would be even better."

France deigns to scoff condescendingly and England hears the paper bag ruffling again. "I got you these," the Frenchman says, "and I want them put to use under my direct supervision."

England doesn't know what _these_ are, but he has known his arch enemy for a millennium, so he has a pretty good guess; France always uses that extra superior tone when food is concerned. The mere thought is enough to water England's mouth, seeing that he hasn't eaten anything proper since he lost his sight, but he is determined not to give in. He will not let France _know_ and then exploit his sorry state.

"Not so fast," he snaps, positioning himself to block the hallway. "I recall saying that I'm busy today. Don't you know what time it is? And that aside – how did you even get in?"

"What do you mean how? I used a key."

England bristles. "I'm not a fool, France, so stop treating me like one."

"Are you not?" France asks dryly, but complies nonetheless. "I used your spare key, if you must know, and, I might add, you've hidden it in a very obvious place. A flowerbed, England? Really?"

"Really, and now that that's clear, piss off."

"I will not," France states calmly. "It's eight o'clock in the evening; whatever 'business' you might have had (which I doubt you even had) can wait until tomorrow. I demand an explanation."

For a fraction of a second, England is stunned by such insolence. "A what? Not bloody likely. Get out!" It is highly disturbing that he cannot see France, his position, gestures, and, most importantly, face – he doesn't know where to concentrate his eyes, and it makes him nervous not seeing the potential threatening movements from France's side. France, on the contrary, can scrutinise England all he likes, and the thought isn't reassuring.

" _Non_ ," France says. "Not until you explain yourself."

"What do you want me to explain?" England cries out in frustration, throwing his arms in the air.

"Would you please move aside and let me in?"

"No fucking way, you twit."

"England."

"What?"

"Is it really so hard to even look at me?"

England's palms begin sweating. "As a matter of fact -"

"You told me not to treat you like a fool. Then why do you treat _me_ like one? I'm neither blind nor deaf, England, I can easily see that something is amiss and I want to know what it is."

"Mind your own business, frog," England hisses, suddenly feeling extremely threatened. He must drive France out, and the sooner the better.

"Look at me," France says suddenly, and England can practically hear his frown. He feels a pang of panic and swiftly turns around, gesturing towards his kitchen. "Fine, take your damn bag there and do what you want with it," he retorts and slightly clumsily strides to his living-room. Damn it, damn it, _damn_ it! He is doomed, it is only a matter of time now before France will know, and – and he mustn't know, not see England like this!

France obediently takes his paper bag to kitchen, but shortly he's in England's living-room, plopping down on the sofa beside him and, no doubt, staring at England. "So," he says, "What's wrong?"

England makes a show of purposefully looking in the opposite direction. "What makes you think something is wrong?" He asks indifferently.

"Other than your suspicious behaviour, the utter chaos in your kitchen, and the fact that judging by your appearance, you haven't had a shower for several days, only the fact that your eyes look like you're high on something," France explains in that annoying calm tone. "Besides, knowing what a workaholic you are, I really want to know what could be more important than a world meeting. Surely not creating your own Gordian Knot here?"

England doesn't answer, mostly because he can't think of anything to say in his defence, and so he merely snorts in vain hope that France will take the hint and leave. France doesn't.

"England. Please tell me you didn't spend the entire day doing _this._ "

"I don't know what you are talking about," England says haughtily.

"It really would be helpful if you told me what's the matter," France utters, and England hears exasperation in his voice.

"Nothing is the matter."

"Then why do you keep avoiding looking at me?"

"Is that unusual?" England bites sarcastically.

France grows quiet, and for a blessed moment England thinks that he's giving up and leaving. The moment is short-lived, of course, and suddenly there are cold fingers gripping his chin. The touch is entirely unexpected and England actually flinches from it, but France doesn't let go. Before England can retort anything he turns England's face towards himself. It is too late that England reacts appropriately – by slapping the hand away – and the damage is already done.

"England, are you seriously _on_ something?" France's voice is stern this time and he grabs rather forcefully England's shoulders and gives them a firm shake. "Answer me, you imbecilic fool of a nation! What have you done to yourself? Your eyes -" He abruptly cuts himself off.

England sits still and waits. One of France's hands disappears from his shoulder and he hears the Frenchman inhaling slowly. "You cannot see."

It is a statement, not a question, and hearing someone else say that sinks England's heart in his chest. "Really?" he asks, biting his teeth together to keep himself in check. "Tell me something I didn't know."

"Oh, England," France says softly, and then stays quiet for a good while, almost making England think that he's not there any more, were it not for his characteristic scent and one hand still resting on his shoulder.

"When..?"

"Three days ago."

"How?"

England hesitates for just a moment before answering. "A side effect of a failed spell," he finally admits.

To his great surprise France doesn't laugh like he usually does when England talks about magic. Instead, he manages to come up with a question. "Will it pass? Can you, how to say, make it away? With your... magic?"

England crosses his arms across his chest. He will need help in finding the answer to France's question, but everything in him screams against it. And yet, he doesn't have a choice.

"I cannot say," he mumbles, fighting to keep himself stoic. "It's written in the spell book."

"Oh," France says. "Well. Let me- which book?"

xXx

Somehow – England isn't quite sure of how it happens – somehow France ends up staying at his place to 'see that he won't starve himself to death now that his terrible cooking skills are combined with blindness'. With England's instructions, France managed to find the right spell book and mumble aloud the passages concerning the side effect so that England had got the information he needed: his blindness would wear off with time, though whether it would take a week or a month, he would just have to see.

Naturally, France wasn't content with leaving England on his own. First he demanded that England would go to France with him so that he wouldn't have to cope alone, but the possibility was out of the question for England – it was bad enough that he needed help at all, he would not allow anyone make him even more dependable by taking him from his familiar surroundings. On hearing that, France declared that he'd stay at England's then until the Englishman could see again. That was out of the question as well, if asked England, but France got his will through in this. Well, having someone to cook for him isn't such a bad idea for someone who has been living on dry toast for three days, but the problem is that it's... France.

England knows, better than anyone, how France is. Everyone knows. The man will never let an opportunity to molest someone slip through his fingers, and he will take advantage of every situation he can. Especially when it's about England. There may have been times in the past when the two of them have ended up naked together, and, quite incidentally, in the same bed too, with the same intentions, and, frankly, that has happened more than England cares to remember. They have always taken what they need from each other, and that's why there's no reason for England to expect anything else of France now. The Frenchman is helping him only in hopes of easy sex at the very least, perhaps even to collect blackmail material to use against England later. He stays because he sees some profit in it, and England will have none of that.

He makes his position clear immediately on realising that he will not be able to rid himself of his uninvited guest until he can see again. "Do you understand?" he demands firmly. "No groping or otherwise touching inappropriately. No taking pictures for any purposes. No -"

"England," France cuts him off, "Contrary to popular belief, I do not take advantage of disabled people. Or anyone unwilling, really. I had hoped that it would be clear by now."

There is an angry note in France's voice and it makes England uncomfortable. "You've taken advantage of me before," he mutters sullenly.

"Should I remind you that we haven't touched each other for fifty years at least?" France asks dryly. "Or wait, no, you must mean those times when you crawled half-drunk in my bed and I slept in a guest room... in my own house? Or maybe you refer to those parts in our history when we were at war and trying to kill one another? You are right, it's all me."

England retorts something illegible and deliberately flees the scene.

xXx

Surprisingly, France stays true to his word. Although England expects a surprise attack, it never comes – France behaves in a most gentlemanly manner, never once even attempting groping England, not even hinting at anything lewd. On the first day he cleans the kitchen and prepares dinner, and then he serves it to England without any perverted allusions to food play. He doesn't even try to feed England, but sits across the table instead, eating his own food and making idle conversation as if nothing was amiss, as if they did that every day. However, they do not, and that's why England finds the abnormally _normal_ situation so odd and unsettling.

After dinner France ushers England to take a shower – but, after making sure that the bathroom is as safe as possible, he leaves England there – _alone_.

"What, not going to insist that we shower together?" England can't help biting, because this considerate France leaves him completely at loss.

France sighs irritably. "And here I thought we already established this, _Angleterre_ ," he says. "Now, I'll close the door, but leave it unlocked just in case."

England nearly laughs at these words in relief – this is the France he knows, this is familiar. "In case you'd like to take a peek?" he asks sarcastically, because that's what he does best.

"In case of emergency," France says coldly and leaves. England hears the bathroom door closing and shudders, but then shrugs it off and turns the water on.

The final shock comes after showering, when France prepares England's bedroom for him – and then retreats to the guest room without so much as even once commenting how cold and lonely his bed is or how he needs to sleep beside England to ensure that he'll be fine during the night. No, he simply wishes England good night and walks away.

The clock ticks away the hours, but England lies awake in his bed, duvet drawn to his chin, and tries to comprehend.

xXx

For nations who have been at each other's throats for the greater part of their history, it is startling how easily they fall into coexisting. And not even coexisting, but actually _living_ _together_. From all that England can gather, France has made himself quite at home and moves about the house as if it was his own, particularly using the kitchen as if he had been cooking there all his life; he prepares breakfast, lunch and dinner, sometimes bakes some sugary treats, and even takes care of the groceries, partly because England still refuses to go out and partly because France doesn't trust such a task for the Englishman.

At first, England feels conscious about the fact that he is not entirely alone in his own house, but then, after a few days, he becomes used to France shuffling about, taking care of his own work and doing his things. It certainly feels odd, even after a few days, but at least now it's not quite so unsettling as it was before – it's actually comforting, feeling another person's presence around, taking care of everything. England still doesn't know why France does it, why he isn't asking for anything in return, but he supposes that France will bring it up later, one way or another.

Except that he doesn't. England does.

It's been five days since France arbitrarily accommodated himself at England's house. Every day at dinner England expects France to finally bring up a way for England to repay the Frenchman's efforts, like assisting him economically, or agreeing to fulfil his dirty fantasies for one night, but no, France asks for none of this. As a matter of fact, he asks for nothing at all, doesn't even drop little hints such as 'oh I wish someone would help me out of this and that'. And he still hasn't harassed England – oh, what is he saying, France hasn't as much as _touched_ him aside of occasional moments where a hand on England's shoulder was necessary to prevent the Englishman from hitting a wall. Not that England misses his touch, heavens no, it's just all plain weird.

And so, on the fifth evening, when they are both in England's living-room, England finally brings the topic up to put himself at ease, since Francis isn't evidently going to do so.

"So," he begins, taking a businesslike sip from his teacup.

"Hm?" France, occupying another armchair, considerately turns down the volume of the telly.

"I think it's time we discussed what you... expect from this whole deal."

"Pardon?"

England rolls his eyes. "I'm talking about your profit from the situation. I thought we would be past pretending at this point."

"My profit?" France repeats coldly.

"Yes, your profit," England snaps at him, tired of games. "You've been practically pampering me for five sodding days, so tell me, what do you want in return?"

He doesn't have to see France to sense the Frenchman's anger; even with blinded eyes England can picture the disapproval in the thin line of France's lips, the tension in his jaw, and icicles in his eyes.

"England."

England shifts uncomfortably. "What."

France doesn't answer, but instead turns up the volume of the television.

"What?" England repeats, now truly asking. France's silence can hardly mean anything good, and it unsettles the Englishman.

"This discussion is ended."

"It's most certainly not! You can't just avoid every uncomfortable topic!"

"Avoid?" Silence crushes upon England as France quite suddenly switches off the telly and drops the remote control on the coffee table. No, wait... There's no silence after all, no, because England hears France's heavy but controlled breathing, and, surprisingly, it's just as loud as his words would have been. France doesn't continue yet, he is probably fighting to keep his head cool if his tone was anything to judge by, and when he continues, England can practically feel the north wind storm through his home.

"Are you sure that it's me avoiding an uncomfortable topic here, England? Or do you think someone else in this room might be purposefully ignoring something?"

France stands up and leaves England to his cooling tea.

xXx

The following morning finds England drained and tired. He slept through the entire night, but his dreams were full of vague figures and accusations and unacknowledged truths, and so he wakes up as exhausted as when he went to bed on the previous evening. It is France's fault, as is always the case; it's the Frenchman's last words that kept plaguing England's mind the entire night.

The house is silent when England descends the stairs, one step at a time. He moves slowly and carefully, sliding his hand along the handrail for support – not because he's particularly concerned about losing his balance and falling, or losing his way, but because feeling something concrete under his palm comforts him, like an anchor to hold on to in the vast black ocean surrounding him.

Especially since he, in all probability, might encounter France.

In truth, England doesn't look forward to the inevitable meeting with the Frenchman. France's words from the night before are troubling him, and that's because England, despite himself, is not entirely oblivious and well understands the meaning behind them. In spite of having long ago mastered the art of denial, England is not stupid. He understands what France was telling him, and whether or not England is going to cross the Rubicon is up to him alone.

An aroma of fresh coffee greets England when he reaches the bottom of the stairs. He halts and inhales the scent, closing his eyes. England loathes the taste of coffee, but the truth (and a well-guarded secret) is that he if not loves, then at least enjoys the scent of it. Besides, in his head the aroma of coffee associates with languid Sunday mornings, when someone's absent humming fills the air, and time is but a word.

England follows the scent to his kitchen, pauses at the doorway, listens. No one is humming how, absently or otherwise, but he hears the clock ticking rhythmically on the wall, occasional cars passing his house outside, and maybe, if he really tries, he can hear France's light breathing.

France is standing at the kitchen counter, beside the coffee machine (which exists in England's kitchen for the sole purpose of treating his occasional coffee-drinking guests), and drinks coffee. France doesn't say anything to betray his position, though, but he has stayed over often enough for England to know his morning routines, and when there is a sound of him taking a gulp of his drink, England's presumption is confirmed.

He steps forward, placing his right hand on the counter for the sense of direction, and advances slowly, hand sliding on the counter. He doesn't know what he is doing, but he senses the Frenchman's eyes on his very skin, and if not now, whatever it is, then when?

His hand bumps into the Frenchman's on the counter, and he yanks it away from the unexpected contact, but then draws a slow breath and returns it to where it was, beside France's, fingers barely brushing. France doesn't move away, but he doesn't say anything, either. His breath tickles England's cheek.

They stand like that for several long seconds, and then England lays his right palm on top of France's on the counter. France doesn't push him away, and England releases the breath he hasn't realised that he was holding. The silence between them turns peaceful, calming, familiar, and England thinks, _Yes, this is good._

It's as though time has stopped moving when they stand like that, motionless, until England senses France lifting the mug in his left hand to his lips for another sip of coffee. It's almost like England could see France, only with his other senses. The idea sticks to him, and so he decides to examine France more closely.

He places his left hand on France's chest, below the shoulder. He feels the muscles there move as France lowers his arm, feels the fabric of his shirt – the Frenchman is fully dressed already. Judging by the fabric, France is wearing one of his casual dress shirts, which he usually likes to wear with the sleeves rolled up just below the elbow. And true: when England slides his right hand up the Frenchman's forearm, his suspicion is confirmed. So, if it's a casual dress shirt, France has probably left the three utmost buttons undone, and he's surely wearing comfortable jeans with it – not too tight, but not slack enough to look baggy. The state of the buttons is quickly checked and confirmed, but England doesn't dare lowering his hand below the belt level. Besides, he's sure about the jeans anyway, he knows France's style well enough to even conclude that the Frenchman isn't planning to go out soon – he would have put his watch on if he was – so he's intending to stay. And not only is he staying, but he's also about to cook something, the fact that his hair is tied to a ponytail at the nape of his neck is a proof of that. Only France doesn't eat breakfast, usually one cup of coffee and a croissant is enough for him, so he's going to cook for -

England's stomach turns upside down at the thought and he swallows. It's all there, it has all been there just before his eyes, all this time. It crashes down on him how only one touch can tell him an entire story about France, his mood, his intentions. How come hasn't he seen it all earlier? How come has he been so blind before, and now, when his eyes have betrayed him, he can finally see it all clear? Sight – how misleading, how selective it can be, only taking note of the things it chooses while deliberately ignoring the smallest, yet the most telling details.

Through all that time France has remained silent, merely sipping his coffee now and then, and letting England feel his chest, his arms and shoulders, his back, his neck. Only when England places his both palms on the Frenchman's face does he finally speak.

"What are you doing?" he asks, and England is fascinated with the movement of his facial muscles. He splays his fingers on France's cheeks, runs them along the bridge of his nose to his eyebrows, forehead, temples. France's eyelashes tickle his palm when he blinks.

"Looking."

England continues to feel the Frenchman's scalp, his hair. France is warm, radiates warmth, and the strong aroma of his coffee fills England's nose. For the first time in days, nay, in decades or even centuries, he truly, finally _sees_ France in that very moment, as he is, what he is. And he is comfortable, close to him, feeling and saying nothing.

He slides his fingers to France's stubble on the jaw and lower to his neck, when he feels something odd there. He halts, returns to the junction of the jaw and the neck, feels again. There is a barely palpable line on the skin, and just beside it another one. England frowns.

"Scars."

"Mm."

How hasn't he noticed them before? And moreover, why are they there? France hasn't participated in vicious conflicts since the First Indochina War, and most scars disappear in a few decades... unless what caused them remains a sore spot for a Nation.

"Why haven't they healed?"

France's throat vibrates beneath England's finders when he speaks. "Some scars take long to heal."

Something in his tone makes England's insides turn cold. "Who?"

France tilts his head and England senses his lips twist into a small smile, and suddenly he's thankful for not being able to see the Frenchman's eyes. "Why, _Angleterre_ ," France says, "Who else?"

England's hands fall off the Frenchman as if his skin had burned him. "Why are you here?"

"Because I want to be," France answers matter-of-factly.

England raises his hand back to France's throat, to touch the scars again. "You want to be," he echoes quietly. "But -"

"England." France grabs both England's hands into his own, squeezes them gently, and the tenderness in his voice nearly breaks the Englishman. "Stop."

"But this is – I don't know what this is," England keeps insisting, unsure of his own point. "This won't work, have you even seen us? Have you seen our history?"

France lifts the Englishman's hands to his lips, and England feels him grin against his knuckles. "Oh, but don't you know, England? Love is blind."

England yanks one of his hands free and whacks the Frenchman on the head. "Fuck you! I'm serious, you sodding git."

"So am I. Stop turning to history to find excuses for failures that might never come true. Past is past, England, leave it there. Here is now. We are now."

"It's not that easy."

"It could be."

"I..." England's fingers curl around France's. "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to accept sincere affection – I don't know what to do with it or where to put it. Nor do I know how to... how to express it myself. I need time to come to terms with it, France. With this all."

France smiles. "There is always time for beings like us, England."

"Actually..." England begins, but France stops him with a hand on his mouth. "Shush! No more realistic nonsense. I'd rather you sat down and waited while I make you some breakfast, and afterwards we can occupy our time how we best see fit."

England finds no objections to that and complies. "France?" he asks.

"Mm?"

"What kind of trousers are you wearing?"

"Trousers? Why?"

"Just asking."

"I see. Light blue jeans, if you must know. The slack-ish ones."

England hums in response, his picture of France's attire now complete and confirmed. He was right, wasn't he?

 _Well then_ , he muses while an omelette hisses on the pan and France is putting the kettle on, _perhaps_ _it_ _might_ _work between_ _us_ _, after all._

X


End file.
